The Lot of Thousands

When hope lies dead within the heart,
By secret sorrow close conceal'd,
We shrink lest looks or words impart
What must not be reveal'd.

'Tis hard to smile when one would weep,
To speak when one would silent be;
To wake when one should wish to sleep,
And wake to agony.

Yet such the lot by thousands cast,
Who wander in this world of care,
And bend beneath the bitter blast,
To save them from despair.

But Nature waits her guests to greet,
Where disappointments cannot come,
And Time guides, with unerring feet,
The weary wanderers home.